


Despite the Winter Chill

by LittleAprilFlowers



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Fluff with Smut to Come!, I’ll add tags when the next chapter is ready!, I’m not sure what else to put, Kissing, M/M, Scones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:00:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleAprilFlowers/pseuds/LittleAprilFlowers
Summary: “ I’ve probably never been more happy to see Baz, I reckon. As rotten as I feel about working overtime, meaning that we couldn’t go out for something nice at the restaurant he likes - the one I still can’t pronounce the name of - it’s good to know he rocks up with a smile all the same as he steps inside.”My piece for Dem in the Snowbaz Sweethearts Exchange! This was a lot of fun to write, but it ended up a bit longer than I intended, so there’s good stuff to come. I hope this gives you just enough to look forward to more. Our boys have played enough of a waiting game themselves at this point, after all.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	Despite the Winter Chill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OtherWorldsIveLivedIn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtherWorldsIveLivedIn/gifts).



**SIMON**

I never would have thought it possible that I could  _ hate  _ scones. Watford’s almost infinite supply never once spoiled it for me, nor did the mountains of butter I’d pile onto them for breakfast, lunch, and afternoon tea. If it weren’t for the miracle of teenage metabolism (and also living in the system outside of school terms and the whole Chosen One thing) I would probably have been the size of a house by the time I got sick of them, if that ever happened at all.

But now, sometime after a whirlwind trip across America that ought to have been the adventure of a lifetime but really,  _ really  _ wasn’t, and saving my old school from certain disaster with a sword I never thought I’d wield again, here I am kneading pure rage into a batch of cheesy dough.

It’s my dream job working at the bakery. I mean that. True, the hours can be rough, and it’s a lot of heavy lifting and doing stuff with your arms. There’s a hungry kid in me that I have to hold back every time a fresh tray of Chelsea buns come out of the oven.

But the pay is decent and the rest of the staff are alright, enough so that I even socialise a bit outside of work with them. It’s nice, having friends. Normal ones. Friends who don’t know that I was ever a Chosen One. I’ll always have Penny and Agatha and Shep in my life, and wouldn’t change them for anything, but not having my own magic anymore means it’s good to be seen as Normal by others who don’t know any different.

But because they’re all so nice, and because I could do with a little overtime pay this month, I’ve had to give up my evening to throw together a last minute batch of scones for some last-minute party. It’s not like I could say no. My boss treats us all fairly, and we’re lucky that the bakery is popular enough to stay afloat in the middle of a city packed with chain cafes and shops that most won’t veer away from.

Even if tonight is date night. No matter what Baz has insisted in his texts, I’m an awful boyfriend sometimes.

**BAZ**

Simon Snow is a wonderful, impossible boyfriend.

I can see him through the open hatch, offering a framed view to the kitchen. Perhaps it’s a little predictable of me, skulking outside the window of the bakery like the embarrassingly obvious vampire that I am. And yet I cannot find it in myself to look away, or at least not when he is working like a man possessed, the muscles tensing in his upper arms like they did when he used to swing a sword around. Sometimes I still see them do that when he’s hoisting my legs over his shoulders and bending me in half beneath him. 

Because Simon and I have sex now. Lots of it. And it’s so,  _ so  _ good. Despite the chill of the evening, I feel my cheeks flood pink; a rarity, though I last fed properly just yesterday night. I spend far too much time thinking about it, usually when I’m trying to write an essay, or speak to Bunce about her own coursework, or when I make Simon an innocent cup of tea or see his name flash up on my phone. A teenaged Tyrannus could not have possibly conceived in his sadistic little mind just how good we are together after years of waiting, and I am not hesitant to admit it has been worth every second that I have waited and more. I am more certain than ever that Simon Snow is the love of my charmed life, and I thank whatever poets will listen every single day that he’s mine.

I ought to let him know I’m outside. Even I am not wholly impervious to the bitter sting of a winter wind, and it’s just a little too Twilight for my liking to lurk outside like this. 

Merlin and Methuselah, his bloody  _ arms. _

Knowing I cannot stomach a moment more of delay, I step into the glow of the streetlight and rap my gloved knuckles lightly on the front door. Simon lifts his face to me, and there’s a precious speck of flour on the tip of his nose. I want to lick it off, which is certainly not a new consideration, not with how often he bakes at home or comes back from work with a smattering of the stuff somewhere on his person. And with how depraved I am, of course, it is bittersweet knowledge that I know what plain flour tastes like.

Something akin to relief flashes across Simon’s freckled face, and he lifts a hand - fingers caked thickly in dough and even more flour - to gesture for me to come in.

**SIMON**

I’ve probably never been more happy to see Baz, I reckon. As rotten as I feel about working overtime, meaning that we couldn’t go out for something nice at the restaurant he likes - the one I still can’t pronounce the name of - it’s good to know he rocks up with a smile all the same as he steps inside. I can tell just by looking that London is cold tonight; winter never seems to let go of the city as soon as it does the rest of the country.

“Hey.” I say to him, thankful for the distraction from pouring all my frustration into the scones. “Sorry.”

Baz laughs and shakes his head, slipping off his gloves and pocketing them. “I’m barely in the door, and already you’re apologising? What exactly do you have to be sorry for?”

It is something I’ve been working on. Channeling my thoughts into improving rather than minimising my self-worth through deprecating thought. Or something. My therapist did promise she would start using less complicated language, but the same can’t be said for the websites she recommends to me sometimes.

I push a bit more enthusiasm into my smile, wanting him to see just how happy I am that he’s here with me. “I know it was date night tonight. And before you start, yes, I  _ know _ you said it didn’t matter. That there would always be more date nights. But I still feel bad about it, Baz. Like I let you down.”

“Don’t feel bad, love.” he insists, and he steps around the end of the counter and disappears from view for a second before reappearing in the kitchen door. With his usual ease he leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like he’s just stepped out of an issue of GQ magazine or something. I panic for a second about him getting a mess on that nice wool coat he’s wearing from being in the same room as me.

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting me here.” I point out, “I wouldn’t have been much longer.”

Baz frowns. “I did tell you. I texted you, and said I’d get the Tube over. I thought we could stop off on the way home for a takeaway, if you wanted to.”

His eyes land on my phone, plugged in nearby. I see the charger in the port, the plug in the socket, and… the switch still turned off, the screen left completely black. Great. That would be why I didn’t know he was coming.

“Whoops.” I mutter. Quickly drawing my focus back to the matter at hand - the dough all over mine - I drive a bit more of that frustration into the scone mix.

**BAZ**

I understand why he is upset. Here is another reason for him to feel as if he has somehow disappointed me, as if such a thing could be possible for someone so earnest in all that he does. But I won’t be angry at him for forgetting to charge his phone because that would be beyond idiotic. Instead I draw closer, resting my hand on his forearm to stop him from kneading the dough under his palms as if it was the sole source of his aggravation.

“It’s alright. It turned out to be more of a surprise.” I insist, leaning in to kiss the rise of his cheekbone where it is most pink. “Aren’t you glad I’m here?”

He huffs, but doesn’t stop despite my insistence. “Course I am. I’d much rather you were here with me than stuck in the flat on your own. But—“

“No. I won’t hear it.”

He turns to me then, his cornflower blue eyes bright with surprise. There’s still that speck of flour on the very tip of his nose, stark against the sweet caramel freckles dotted across his face. Then something in his expression changes at the proximity of my mouth to his; a flicker of a Simon that is new to the both of us, but certainly a side I’ve quickly come to appreciate.

He’s close to smirking at me. He almost looks better doing it than I do. 

“I  _ am _ glad you’re here.” he reiterates, his voice lower than usual. It takes all my willpower not to just crumple like wet paper onto my knees in front of him.

I dare to bump my nose with his, not caring if some of that flour transfers to me. “How long are you going to be?”

“Twenty minutes tops. Wait out back?”

With about as much restraint as I can manage when he talks to me like  _ that _ , I nearly sprint to the staff room of the bakery. When Simon Snow has a plan, as mad as it might be, I know well enough by now to trust him. And I also have about as much willpower where he’s concerned as a starving child in a chocolate factory.

**SIMON**

It takes me a lot less time than usual to get all the scones cut, glazed, and in the oven. Unfortunately you can’t rush the actual bake itself without everything going tits up, so that inevitably takes the same ten minutes as it usually does, give or take a few. But all that time is spent remembering that Baz is here, that he’s in the back room waiting for me. I’m hoping I can make his trip here worth the hassle after all. My fingers drum on the counter as I lean against it, rocking back and forth like I’m stuck in a tide dragging me out to him.

Watford-era me would be losing his mind in a totally different way. Even me from a little over a year ago would be panicking, unsure of what to do, how to follow through with what I’ve set up between me and my nemesis-turned-boyfriend…

But now I know better than to run away or shut myself off so hastily. The me of today knows that Baz loves me more than anything; he’s told me and shown me in so many ways that even I can’t doubt it, stubborn git that I am, with all my lingering insecurities aside. And I know as well how much he likes it when I take charge, when I tell him what I want and how I want him to do it. So I have.

Christ, and we’re at work. One of us is a bad influence in this situation, but I still haven’t pinned down if it’s me for suggesting it or him for not turning me down. At this point I’m not sure I care enough to figure it out.

The timer on the scones finally going off is the best thing I’ve ever heard. Golden brown and crispy on the outside, with one made spare just to check, the scent of baked cheese completely beyond my patience to resist--

Baz is waiting for me.  _ Focus _ .

But maybe…?

**BAZ**

When Simon appears in the doorway, I have removed my coat and scarf. His apron is gone, leaving him in jeans and a tight white shirt that hugs his shape in all of the most perfect ways. Leaning against the worktop in a way which I hope is seductive but probably just makes me look like a twit, I smile at him through my lashes.

“What have you got there, Snow?”

The hand behind his back comes away to reveal… a scone. I can’t say I’m surprised. Topped with a crown of perfectly baked cheddar cheese, and already crumbling in the centre of his palm. The scent of the rest of the batch wafting in from the kitchen is mouthwatering. Almost as mouthwatering as the way Simon tips his head and smiles at me. There’s that mole on his neck that I’ve always fixated so firmly upon, begging for me to kiss it. I can hear his pulse and the way it quickens when he sees how my attention lingers on his bare skin.

“You look hungry.” he says, more casually than he has any right to with a man whose most lurid fantasies as a touch-starved teenager included drinking him dry. Although I still don’t know what Simon tastes like, that does not prevent me from imagining the buttery goodness thrumming under his skin, and what it would feel like running hot and red over my tongue.

I find myself chewing at my bottom lip, and I certainly don’t miss how Simon looks immediately for the glimpse of my teeth. He’s obsessed with them.  _ Wicked,  _ he’d called them, in my childhood bedroom some distant Christmas ago. I couldn’t bring myself to agree with him then, and it’s difficult to do so now. They haven’t popped yet, but they inevitably will if I keep pursuing this particular train of thought.

“I’m not hungry.”

It’s a lie. Even with how endearingly thick Simon can be at times, it’s an obvious one. He of course sees through me immediately. What little distance remained between us is gone as he steps closer. He sets the scone down on the counter, whatever his intentions for it being quickly forgotten in favour of using his broad torso to pin me to the counter’s edge.

“Then what do you want from me, Baz?” he whispers as he leans in closer still. Simon’s breath is hot as it tickles the shell of my ear. A hand, warm from his work and thankfully cleaned of dough and flour, tugs my shirt out of my waistband and sneaks under the fabric. It settles as it often does on my stomach, pressing gently into my abdomen in a way that has anchored me to him since the first time he kissed me like this.

It is difficult to find the right way in which to tell him what I want, when all my mind can offer is wordless pleas for something,  _ anything.  _

“I want you.” I decide, “Snow, I want--”

“Snow?”

“ _ Simon _ .” I try again, unable to hide the petulance in my tone. I thrill as much as he does at how intimate it continues to feel when I use his first name. “I want you. Please.”

He needs no more prompting than that. The next thing I know his other hand is clinging to my hair, pulling my face to his for a kiss that sears like the brush of sheer flame against my lips. I cannot help but moan as his body is pressed flush to mine, and the lapse allows Simon to immediately slip his tongue into my mouth. I am hungry, but Simon is hungrier; he takes from me like an empty vacuum, draining  _ me _ as I fantasise of draining him. We make quite the pair.

**SIMON**

Bloody hell, Baz tastes good. He must have popped a breath mint before he came inside the bakery. I can imagine by comparison that I taste like tea and cheese, but Baz doesn’t seem to care, eagerly chasing my tongue with his own like he needs it to breathe. It starts to feel that way for me too, like I’ll drown if I let go.

So I don’t. I cling to him like my life depends on it. Beneath the spellwork my wings itch to spring free, and I can feel my tail twisting around my thigh even under my jeans.

It isn’t the only thing that feels trapped in the denim, that’s for sure.

“Baz.” I whisper his name, knowing he loves how ragged my voice gets and intending to take full advantage. “Touch me.”

My hands are all over him - in his hair, then resting against his neck to cradle his chin, the other still pressing into his stomach. But Baz’s fingers are white at the knuckles clinging to the edge of the counter he still leans on. At my words he lets go and instead settles his palms firmly at the softer part of my waist. I know he likes this part of me, how I’m less skinny than I used to be. Makes sense. It means we’re safe, that I can be who I am around him without worrying about having to save the World of Mages or something.

Feeling safe kissing a vampire. Not sure I ever could’ve predicted that one. Least of all that the same vampire would be my boyfriend of a good few years, staying with me through more shit than anyone else might have for half as long.

“I love you.” I breathe into him, feeling as if my whole existence hinges on him knowing it. I can feel Baz grin against my mouth, just as giddy as I am.

“Love you too.” he promises as he tugs me in again. We both groan feeling how hard we are already, and I’m certain that whatever happens, I will be making up for delayed plans in whatever way I can. So I’m not the best with words - that doesn’t stop me from being creative when I need to be.

**BAZ**

“Fuck, Simon, I—“

He has me swearing like a Normal. Simon’s a devil, even negating the arrowhead dragon tail writhing in his trousers. Of that I am more than certain. How else could I succumb so easily to the temptation which he offers? Stuck after hours at work, and he has still made me his sole focus. Currently his attention is aimed at the hollow of my throat, where he sucks a mark into my cool skin. A frankly embarrassing moan (if I had the will to care about such things) claws its way up my throat with no restraint, and my hands tighten on the thick flesh at Simon’s midriff as we clumsily move against one another, my body trapped by his despite my few inches of height over him. 

Simon Snow is  _ hard _ against me. The thought continues to catch me by surprise, sending me into a dizzy spell like some blushing virgin, like I don’t intimately know what it feels like to have his bare sweat-slick skin flush to mine by now. I curse the tight trousers I wear; they were a highly impractical choice to start dry-humping my boyfriend in, but I could not have predicted we would find ourselves like this to have prevented it. He continues to surprise me, his confidence in himself and in us growing every day.

I love him. It would be futile to try not to, as if I would ever dare.

The sound of a bus passing outside the bakery draws me from my reverie, even as Simon sucks yet another bruise into the skin just above my collarbone where my shirt has slipped down to reveal it. I hiss and my fingers dig tighter into him.

“W-we shouldn’t. Not here.” I murmur. There is little real commitment in my protest, but still a quiet insistent voice in the back of my mind knows I am right. The last thing I want is for him to get into trouble because I was too horny to wait until we made it home, tempting as it is for him to just bend me over the counter and have his way whilst he smells like fresh baked goods.

As much as I can sense that it pains him to do so, Simon draws back. He bumps his nose with mine and gasps softly for breath. When he leans away enough for me to properly take in the sight of him, his cinnamon-dusted cheeks are glowing a healthy pink, his irresistible lips are swollen from the desperation of our kisses, and the deep black of his pupils are hallowed in a halo of summer sky blue. It takes what small restraint I can muster not to take back my insistence and simply devour him.

“You’re…. You’re right.” he says, shaking his head and letting out a chuckle made husky by his arousal. Even now his hips shift idly with mine, and the sensitivity near enough makes me curse again.

“Shall we head home?” I suggest, withdrawing my hands from his hips only to sneak them into his own. “We can get a nasty pizza, empty the booze cupboard, and swear at Jeremy Kyle until we pass out. If that’s what you feel like doing?”

Simon laughs, and my heart grows wings as wide as the ones I long to see spring from his back. “God, talk dirty to me. I’ll just lock up and then we can go.”

_ To be continued… _ .


End file.
